Fragments
by claraphernalia
Summary: Her smile melts his cold heart. Does he let her know this? No. So, she's kept waiting in the dark, pining for him with all her heart all while thinking it's unrequited love. Then he leaves her broken, and all she can think is: What's so good about picking up the pieces? She's left in fragments and it's all his fault.
1. Goodbye

He was cold and calculating, but she loved him for it.

She didn't exactly know why. But she knew with all her heart that she did.

She also knew it was unhealthy of her to do so.

But love—_her _love for _him _was beautifully twisted.

It made her feel like she was on top of the world. Her heart would hammer in her chest: a hummingbird's heartbeat. She looked at him like the freaking sun shone out of his ass.

There was one thing that almost stopped her heartbeat. It made her come down from fantasy and come crashing back into reality.

His words had that effect on her. They were cruel and always meant to bring her down.

Her smile would falter, and he'd smile when he noticed that.

She knew he'd gain some kind of victory whenever he was successful in making her feel like utter shit.

She would not let that ruin her.

She promised herself she wouldn't.

But aren't promises made to be broken?

* * *

One always, always cracks.

That's what Molly Hooper was bound to do, anyway.

Everyone knew that. John always kept a wary eye on her every single time Sherlock would bark orders at her and spew out rude comments on her appearance, her activities, or anything else that he'd find wrong at her.

Lestrade would give him dirty looks whenever they examined an autopsy.

Mrs. Hudson's heart ached for Molly than her hip pained herself.  
Because, to be honest, Sherlock Holmes was a fucking asshole.

For some reason, Molly stuck with him despite that.

But she cracks, like every other person.

Because Molly was also a person, even if Sherlock couldn't see that

"Molly, for God's sake, could you just stop being such a bint? The man's obviously married."

His tone was on the verge of giving up and frustration was clear.

Molly Hooper had just come back from a quite successful date and she was smiling and happy, and, for once, it wasn't because of him.

He, of course, had to call her out on her happiness. He opened her eyes to the real world when all she wanted to do was stay in her world full of rainbows, cats, and handsome men.

She took a deep breath and flashed him a smile.

"Fuck you."

Then she shrugged off her lab coat, shedding it like a snake would to its old skin. Little did she know that this would be a metaphor for the things to come.

She swept her arm across the table, bringing down several test tubes, beakers, and everything else that came in contact with her arm.

But, oh no, she wasn't done.

She stomped her feet on the fallen apparatus, crushing them effectively.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, seemingly uninterested. But a smile played secretively on his lips, amusing him.

"I AM SO BLOODY DONE WITH YOU. WHY CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE, SHERLOCK? WHY? I AM SO TIRED OF THIS—SO TIRED OF PRETENDING LIKE IT DOESN'T FREAKING HURT ALL THE GODDAMN TIME!"

Angry, hot tears streamed down her red face, heightening her anger at Sherlock.

He looked on, unflinching every time she screamed.

Eventually, she collapsed on the floor, putting her face in her hands. She screamed into them, the sounds albeit muffled.

"Molly, get me a cup of coffee please. Black—"

"Two sugars. I know," she finished for him.

He smiled smugly at her. "Good. Hurry up."

"Just because I know, doesn't mean I'm going to do it. Sherlock, I am so bloody tired of this. Of being used, of getting verbally attacked, of hearing all the faults I have that I already know come out of your mouth. I lo- I love you. But I'm not going to go through this anymore. I'm so sick of this. I've always been patient, but Sherlock, I'm done. I am finished."

He stared quite dumbfounded at her retreating back. He glanced at the mess she made and sighed inwardly.

"Look at the mess you made, Molly."

He wasn't sure if he meant the one on the floor or the one that would leave a mark on him forever.

* * *

She truly was finished.

Her bags were packed and she was ready to move.

She knew that her old friends would look for her. She didn't want them to find her. She wanted to have a fresh start, without her past haunting her.

She just wanted everything to be normal again.

But they would never be, and deep down in her heart, she knew that.

* * *

"Sorry, did you just say that Molly Hooper quit her job?" John asked the new pathologist with huge eyes.

The new pathologist, with not as much patience as Molly, rolled his eyes.

"Did I not just say that?" There was malice in his voice, a silent _go away_ evident in the tone of his voice and his rolling of eyes.

Sherlock frowned. "This won't work."

He disappeared in a whirlwind of coat and curls.

John followed Sherlock, quietly agreeing that the new pathologist (they didn't even bother to know his name) would not work.

* * *

Molly smiled brightly at her new boss, nodding at all the right places.

"Right, well, you'll fit right in, Miss Hooper," he said, holding the door open for her.

"Doctor Hooper," she corrected, smiling gently at him.

"Oh, forgive me, Doctor Hooper."

She smirked inwardly. _Good job, Molly Hooper. Good job, indeed._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes did not need anyone.

_That much_, he supposed after some thought.

He stared straight ahead; his palms lay flat against each other and pressed against his face, his thumbs under his chin.

His "thinking stance" as John called it.

"I'm going for a walk," John called out, a hundred-watt smile showing on his face.

Sherlock sniffed the air and aftershave and cologne invaded his senses. His mouth was open to say something cutting, but he closed them instead.

John stared at Sherlock, almost relieved he didn't say anything.

"We have no more coffee," Sherlock said instead.

John pressed his lips into a thin line. "Okay. Don't wait up; I'll be back late."

The door slammed.

_Oh, but I already knew that, John. You're going on a date. Again._

* * *

Molly walked the small expanse of her kitchen to reach the cupboard. She grabbed a cup and put the kettle on.

She sat in the living room while waiting for the telltale sign of the whistling of the kettle. Yes, she knew that it was modern day England and most people had electronic kettles, yet she felt at peace with that method. It reminded her of when she was younger—the simple times.

She hummed under her breath while she flicked through the TV mindlessly. Her finger stopped working once she stopped on a news channel.

He was there.

On her TV screen.

The kettle whistled and it brought her back to the present day.

It had been a year now.

And she still got the little ache that was known as heart break.

Molly Hooper still missed Sherlock Holmes.

She did not want to know if he missed her as well.

She was afraid to know.

Her fright to think about him again was the driving force behind the _click_ of the TV remote and the light from the TV set itself going out.

_Tea. Tea will make me feel better. Tea has done nothing wrong to me. Tea did not turn me into the shell of what I once was. _

_No, _her heart whispered. _Sherlock was the one who did that._

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hello! I hope you enjoyed what has become the first chapter of a Molly and Sherlock (Sherlolly) fan fic. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Constructive criticism is great, but "Fuck you. You suck!" criticism is not. Um, I don't know what else to say.

This is pre-Reichenbach, in case you were wondering. And the italicised words are the person's thoughts.


	2. He's Really Gone?

**AN: Terribly sorry for the lack of updates. I've been recently hit by inspiration, so I managed to finish this chapter. It is a bit short, though. Thank you for all of those who reviewed and I hope I don't disappoint you with this one.**

**Oh, and this transitions into post-Reichenbach, because it felt appropriate.**

* * *

Molly was rather enjoying her stroll in the park. Her coffee's heat radiated from the cardboard cup to her fingers. She was glad for that, since the winter could be so harsh.

It was the type of day where everything was bland, predictable and right on schedule. Molly glanced at her watch and sighed mournfully.

Her lunch break was over.

And it was time to cut up some dead bodies.

* * *

"Such a shame, that Sherlock bloke," she heard one of her colleagues tell her.

"What about him?" she asked, her heart speeding up.

"I thought you might have seen it on the news," her colleague told her.

"I caught part of it but I went to bed after that," she lied, biting her lip.

"Apparently he committed suicide."

"Did he now?" Molly asked, all the air from her lungs getting sucked out.

"Yeah, jumped off St. Barts," her informant told her with nonchalance.

Molly breathed deeply. "I think I'm going to go get some air."

"I'm sorry if you feel upset about it. It's pretty ghastly news."

"I'll manage!" Molly yelled out, not even convinced by her own lie.

* * *

Molly ran as fast as she could to Baker Street. This had to be a joke. Sherlock was going to be there, playing (hopefully) a nice tune on his violin.

She cursed when she realized that Baker Street was a bit too far.  
_God, Molly, you're so stupid. You don't live in your old flat anymore._

Molly hailed a cab, while catching her breath from the exercise of running. She slid into the cab, gave the address and prayed to whatever deity there was that Sherlock was at Baker Street.

* * *

She arrived later than she would have liked, but she did arrive and that's what counted.

Molly hesitated at the door before pushing it gently and entering the complex.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson!" Molly jolted in surprise once she saw the elderly woman.

"Molly Hooper? I haven't seen you in such a long time. Are you here to see John, then?"

"I'm sorry about that. I've been away. And I'm here to see Sherlock. A colleague of mine played a joke on me and told her Sherlock committed suicide." Molly managed to fake a laugh.

Mrs. Hudson paled. Her lower lip started to tremble and she looked like she was about to burst.

Molly's eyes widened in alarm and her heart started to crumble. She pulled Mrs. Hudson in for a hug.

"He was always bustling about upstairs… and now it's like I still hear him, but he's not there," Mrs. Hudson confessed, burying her tear stricken face into Molly's shoulder.

Molly patted her on the back and felt a few tears surfacing as well.

"He never admitted it but, Molly dear, I know he missed you when you left."

Molly's heart started to throb dully. She extracted herself from Mrs. Hudson, gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

"I'll go see if John wants to talk," Molly told Mrs. Hudson, before climbing up the stairs.

* * *

He was broken.

Molly could see it once she stepped inside the flat.

He was there, sitting on Sherlock's favorite chair, gripping the armrests hard.

"John." Molly's voice called out softly, afraid to disturb him.

John's vacant eyes flickered to her form standing in the doorway. He managed a sort of a smile, which just turned out to be a twist of his lips.

"It really is true?" she asked him, even though she knew the answer.

"I wish it wasn't," he told her truthfully, trying to keep his tears at bay.

"Me too," she said. "Especially with all that happened before I left."

She approached him for a hug, which he gladly accepted.

"And everyone's saying he was a fake. Moriarty managed to sell that to the world. But he's not a fake. He's not." There was a tone in John's voice that suggested he still had faith in his friend—his best friend—and would have it forever.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," Molly mustered, her faith in the man also showing.


	3. Winter Tidings

Molly sank deeper into the sea of depression and denial as the months went by. She didn't believe that Sherlock would do such a thing. He was always so sure of himself. It wouldn't be like him. But then again, Molly wouldn't know. He was so closed and reserved to everyone. Molly had desperately wished to be part of his life; to be in his close circle of friends. No matter how much he tried to initiate her in his life, Molly knew that she was never really part of it. She was merely a pawn to gain access to the lab. Once he found out that a government official, namely Mycroft Holmes, had granted him full access to the lab and whatever Sherlock needed from St. Barts, she had been casted away. Molly then became an assistant, to put it kindly. To put it not so kindly, she was a rag doll that served Sherlock. He never noticed her. Never wanted to either. She was hurt by that, but for some stupid reason she had stayed.

_What a fat lot of good that did me_,Molly thought, bitterness seeping into her thoughts.

She was currently nursing a cup of tea in her favorite spot on her couch. Stirring her spoon around absently, Molly looked out her window to notice the sprinkling of snowflakes. Winter had always been her favorite season. She loved the way the snow coated almost every surface, giving the impression that everything was clean and pure. She liked burying herself in sheets at night while she read a good book or watched TV. The winter season was very therapeutic to Molly so she decided to pay someone a visit.

* * *

Molly half-ran to her closet, opting for jeans and a jumper. Her fashion sense was criticised by almost everyone, but she didn't give a damn right now. Her cat jumper gave her a sense of comfort, which she really needed this time. Molly fashioned her hair into a ponytail as she looked for her winter boots. She cursed when she realized she wasn't wearing any socks. Molly dashed to get a pair of socks. Then she suddenly slowed down. She did not need to rush. After all, he wasn't going anywhere.

Snug in her coat and scarf, Molly walked the streets of London, feeling a bit content. The winter wind was harsh, but Molly was used to any type of harshness. She stuffed her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat and bit her lip in anticipation.

* * *

The mood of the place was sad and a bit creepy. Understandable, really.

Molly stood face to face with the big iron gates and the lettering that spelled out the words, **NEWPORT CEMETERY**.

She took deep calming breaths to steady herself and give herself courage. Her hand shot out to push the iron gates open. The gates gave an irritating squeak and Molly subconsciously looked around to see if anyone was there.

Molly walked carefully to the grave, as if her destination would lead her to death. Her steps were calculated and soft, afraid to upset anyone or to alert anyone of her presence.

She reached her destination and to her surprise, she didn't break down immediately. Molly knelt down and there was a satisfying crunch of snow. The cold prickled at her jeans, reaching her skin. She pushed aside the fact that it was bloody freezing and she was kneeling on snow. Molly brushed the snow away from the headstone and the words she dreaded the most appeared in front of her. _Sherlock Holmes. _She didn't think they'd meet like this again after all those months. She didn't want to meet like this again. But seeing the snow reminded her of how something so beautiful could cover up things that were rotten and broken—much like him, really. Her next words came tumbling out of her mouth before she even knew it.

"Hi, Sherlock," she started, feeling a wee bit silly for talking to a grave. She supposed he deserved at least a piece of her mind. Not literally, because we all know about Sherlock's experiments.

"I don't believe you're dead. Then again, everyone else tells me I'm wrong. I suppose I shouldn't believe them. I've never been one to really care about what people think. No, I only cared about what you thought. But your thoughts never really were kind."

Molly's breaths suddenly became ragged and her eyes shone with tears. She tried to blink them away, but only managed to make them slide down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe them off her face. Instead, she focused on her thoughts; on what to say next.

"People say I should move on. The nagging part of my mind says I should follow them. I don't understand, though. How can I move on when you've left me with so little to move on with? You've broken me. In a way that can't be fixed by anyone. I wish I wasn't like this. So trusting. And so easily in love. I've tried to move on, I guess. But you see how that worked out. No matter how perfect the other guys seem like, they're never you. I always compare them to you. No one can compare to you. Not for me, anyway. So I don't know what this is, but I think it's my final goodbye. I haven't moved on, and I don't think I ever will. But I'm saying goodbye to you. I know you're not coming back. I know things aren't going to be the same, but I just—I can't understand. I miss you. I've missed you for a long time now."

Molly wiped away her tears, laughing bitterly to herself. "Molly Hooper—always so pathetic and stupid. We weren't even together, Sherlock."

There was a silence as Molly let those words sink in. _Why am I doing this? Acting like he had some sort of attachment to me? He didn't. Molly, please stop. You're humiliating yourself. _

"What I'm trying to say is that I'm letting you go. You're free to stay dead. I love you."

Molly's words had certain finality to it. She hated the way her words did that, but she knew they were for the best.

She made a move to stand up, her brain registering the fact that her jeans were sopping wet at the knees. Her eyes flickered to the top of the headstone, noticing that someone was peering at her.

What she saw made her heart hammer wildly in her chest. It made her want to scream and breakdown at the same time.

"Hello, Molly Hooper," Sherlock Holmes said, his baritone overpowering Molly's ability to think.

His crystal eyes pierced into Molly's brown ones and she could only hear his words.

"I'm back."

**AN: Dun, dun, dun. The plot thickens! Sorry to end at a cliffhanger (if it is one. I'm not so skilled at those.)! Review, favorite, follow or whatever. I posted this now because the first day of my school is on Monday, and I'd like to keep that reserved. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	4. Happy Ever Afters Don't Exist

**AN: Really, really long overdue, but I've been a bit busy with school and all. I'll try to get up some chapters up over the weekend. Thank you for all your reviews! If you have any suggestions on what to do the next chapter, they'd be greatly appreciated as well.**

**Also, to clear things up, I've realised that Newport Cemetery is in Cardiff. And just for the sake of the story and since I probably have poetic license, I'll keep it in London.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"I'm back."

Molly fell to the ground, her hand clutching her chest. She breathed and it was quite painful for her to do so. Her eyes watered a bit, but she bit back the sobs that were clawing at her throat. _Jesus Christ. _

Words fell from Molly's lips without her really meaning to. "This isn't really what John meant when he said to keep a low profile."

This earned her a glare from Sherlock. Her demeanor suddenly changed, an air of insecurity enveloping her yet again.

"I- I'm just going to leave now," Molly said with shaking hands. Her mind registered the numbness her knees felt and Molly felt her knees knocking together. Molly took one last look at Sherlock.

He looked well, and that made her want to punch him in the face all the more. He looked like he had been bloody there since forever and that they were all just playing along with his game. She was sick of it, to be honest. And after letting him stay dead, he comes back to life. Thank you, universe!

She turned her back on him and started to walk as far as her feet could carry her until he spoke.

"You said I could ask you if I needed your help with something."

"Past tense," she retorted, her steps slightly failing.

"You count, Molly Hooper. And right now I need your help."

Molly spun around, words dancing on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be spat out. But when her eyes met his desperate ones, something inside her came to life.

"Okay," she muttered, just for Sherlock to hear. "But I need to do something first."

Sherlock analysed her for a moment. "Be my guest."

She approached him and when she was face to face, she stopped. Molly took two steps back, as if giving him a hug, then reared her fist backward. She swung it at Sherlock's face, a _crunch _sound in the air. Molly's knuckles were bruised, but so was Sherlock's face. She grinned to herself and despite the pain, she was happy again.

"Fuck!" Sherlock yelled, clutching his hand over his face.

Molly held her wounded fist in her other hand, as if tending to a small broken bird. The look she gave Sherlock was a _how-could-you? _type of look.

He glared up at her, his crystal blue eyes making a hole right through her head.

"Was that necessary?" he asked, his voice spitting out venom.

Molly smiled haughtily at him. "You have no right to ask me that after you pretending to be dead! I cannot imagine what John's going to be like when he finds out."

Sherlock stood up and pressed his face close to Molly's. "He isn't going to find out. Besides, you have no right to pretend like you care since you went away years ago!"

Molly stared at him with an unreadable expression. "I didn't think that what I did affected you so much."

Sherlock suddenly turned away, surveying the vast landscape.

The silence enveloped them, blanketing them with tension.

"Come along, then," Molly said, slightly tugging at his coat sleeve.

Sherlock let himself be dragged away, grateful for Molly's help.

* * *

Molly quickly entered her flat, towing a Sherlock in disguise behind her. She shut the door quickly, locking it again. She then let go of Sherlock and he failed to notice the lack of warmth his body felt. Sherlock notices everything, but he lets this observation go. Molly drew the curtains, blocking their view of the street below.

"Spill it out," she said demandingly after seating Sherlock on her couch.

"Can I have some tea?" he asked politely, a different tone underlying in his words.

"Fine. Don't tell me now. But I expect the truth to come out sooner." Molly marched off to boil some water (on her electric kettle, now) and make him some bloody tea.

Molly handed him his tea, having subconsciously remembered the way he took his.

Sherlock sipped it delicately before placing it on the table with an audible _clink._

"I guess you must know what I'm doing."

"Oh, please, do tell," she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm.

* * *

"John, this is Mary. She's an old friend of mine," Molly introduced, smiling at John who still resembled a zombie, after the many months Sherlock had been gone. Her heart pained for him, especially after knowing where Sherlock really was.

His eyes connected with her friend's, and he gave Mary a ghost of the brilliant smile he used to have. Mary beamed at him, her personality flowing through.

"What do you do for a living, John?" Mary asked, attempting to diffuse the silence.

John spared a glance at Molly. Didn't this girl read the news?

"Mary's been out of the country. She's volunteered in Africa during the past couple of years," Molly explained to John.

"Oh," John said, realisation dawning on him. "I'm Sherlock Holmes' partner."

"You're a partner for a living?" Mary asked, her eyes wide.

"No, no, no! He's a detective," John explained, grimacing.

"Oh. Well, then, I'm sure you have such exciting stories that I'd love to hear."

"Yes, actually—"

"I think I'm going to head on home now, guys. It was lovely seeing you, John," Molly interrupted, noticing the subtle chemistry between the two.

John caught the wink Molly gave Mary, giving his eyes the familiar spark he once had.

Maybe Mary was the antidote to his problems.

* * *

"John met Mary today," Molly said, arranging the groceries into her cupboards.

Sherlock nodded cautiously, waiting for her next words.

"I think they hit it off."

He observed her knowing smile and the way her eyes lit up. "You like being some sort of matchmaker, don't you?"

Molly walked into the living room, two mugs of tea in her hands. She handed one to Sherlock, who took it gratefully.

"I suppose I like the idea of being the one to introduce you to your happy ever after."

"Happy ever afters don't exist," Sherlock stubbornly insisted.

Molly rolled her eyes at his pessimistic nature. He'd been living in her flat for a week now and she was fed up of his constant whining and deductions.

She opted to ignore his lure for a fight and turned the telly on instead. Molly was watching a pointless show before drifting off to sleep, unknowingly leaning on Sherlock.

He looked surprised at her, before his critical gaze softened. He gently lay her down on his lap, having calculated the most comfortable position for her to lie in. He tucked strands of her hair behind her ear before catching himself. He could not afford to be vulnerable and sentimental right now. Not when there was a whole network to disband.

So, instead of getting physically intimate, Sherlock just watched her sleep.

That way, he could distance himself from Molly just in case she wrecks him (again).

_But this time, _Sherlock thinks, _I'll be leaving you. _

And he isn't really sure whether he's prepared for it.


	5. Reconciliation

He's often not around and it's taken some time for her to get used to it.  
She wakes up and feels the cool sheets that are marred with creases left by his lean and firm body. The cool sheets attack her bones, chilling them to their very core and she so desperately longs for his warming touch. She recalls how his body comes into contact with hers in the middle of the night and his long arms snake around her waist, pulling her protectively against him. She thinks that she hears him whisper, "I will always protect you." but she's sure it's a figment of her imagination. (At least that's what she tells herself to avoid the heartbreak.)

* * *

Her footsteps are hurried as she races to 221B Baker Street. Her brain thinks about how illogical it is for Sherlock to be there, but her heart tells her differently. Her instincts don't stop her from hailing a cab to get there faster.

When she gets there, she hears the noise of a scuffle and loud screaming. Her heart is already preparing for an "I told you so." to her brain.

The door is slightly ajar and she applies pressure to it for it to budge some more. It creaks and she winces at the sound of it, preferring to be undetected.

"John?" she asks meekly hoping to find not only him, but Sherlock as well. What she sees makes her stand frozen in her spot.

Sherlock and John are tangled together on the floor, struggling against each other while occasionally throwing punches at each other.

She tries clearing her throat, once her brain reboots. But that doesn't work so she opts for a loud "STOP!".

They stop to look at the source of the loud voice only to find Mousy Molly at their disposal. John gives her a sheepish smile and Sherlock just raises an eyebrow at her. They disentangle and stand awkwardly beside each other.

When her eyes come into contact with his, she lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding. She glares at him, hurt that he didn't even say _anything_ about seeing John.  
Of course Molly knows about Sherlock missing John and she feels his pain. She is, however, hurt by the fact that Sherlock sharing his biggest secret isn't enough for him to fully trust her. She settles for a glare, even though her heart beats dully.

She looks at her friend, John, and notices the way his previous pallor has disappeared, leaving a flood of colour on his face. His eyes have that sparkle again, making him look like the John Watson he used to be.  
(But he's never going to be the same again. He'll be shivering at nights, thinking his best friend—one of the only people who truly cared about him and made a huge impact on his life—is dead and gone. He will wake up gasping for air when he realizes the apartment is so silent, but then he'll hear the bustling of Sherlock in the kitchen and he can finally relax. John Watson is broken and he'll never be fully whole. Sherlock is so sure that trying will help, though.)

John starts cursing at Sherlock, letting out his emotions and Sherlock takes all of those words with a silent grace. He winces slightly whenever John looks like he's close to dissolving into tears. Molly notices this. She is far more capable of noticing things than what Sherlock gives her credit for.

When Sherlock apologises and hugs John, Molly hides her smile by biting her lip and shaking her hair to cover her face. This gesture hasn't gone unnoticed by the great Sherlock Holmes. Molly notices him looking at her intently and she offers him a smile, her eyes twinkling brighter than the stars.  
As Sherlock watches, he realises he would never admit how her smile melts his cold heart.  
_  
That way_, he thinks, _it's easier._

* * *

**AN: And there you have it! Quite a short update from me. I hope you guys are still reading and enjoying this. I'm sort of writing the ending (which is weird, I know) and I'm thoroughly excited for you guys to read it. Oh, and I'm on holiday for a week, so maybe there will be new chapters for y'all. **


	6. Pregnancy and Chick-Flicks

**AN: Alright, so a few clarifications: **

**1. My verb tense is weird, because it goes from past tense to present tense. I'm very sorry for that and I'll just let it stay in the present tense. That means this story goes from the past to the present. **

**2. This chapter is a few months after Sherlock reveals himself to the world. Everyone is gradually becoming used to his presence again.**

**3. Actually, that's it. **

**4. Oh, wait. I would love to thank all of you for the support and the kind words you have for this fic. From the very bottom of my heart, I shower you all with eternal love.**

* * *

"I think I'm in love with you."

Those words easily slip off his tongue. They are meant to be meaningful words that should make Molly realize that she loves him too. Instead, they come out cold and meaningless, the polar opposite of what he was trying to do. He stares at his reflection again and sighs.

_Pathetic, _he thinks to himself.

Finding the right words to make or break someone is definitely one of Sherlock's talents. He's usually really skilled with words, so why can't he come up with anything to say to Molly?

* * *

Molly sighs as she sits down on her couch, freeing her hair from the confines of her hair tie. She runs her fingers through her hair, slightly raking her fingers against her scalp. She lets out a groan of pleasure and leans back on the soft cushions.

"Molly!" she hears her friend yell and she winces at the thought of human interaction.

"Hi, Mary," she greets the blonde haired beauty and smiles. Maybe some human interaction is what she needs right now.

"I've got very important news, Molly," Mary says, urgency clear in her voice as she rummages around Molly's cupboards for some wine.

"You're pregnant?" Molly asks, getting up only to stop Mary from making more racket. She grabs a glass of wine for herself and a mug for Mary's tea.

Mary looks aghast at her. "You know?!" she whispers, as if someone else could hear her.

"Found the test results from the nosy assistant at the ObGyn." Molly supplies, shrugging in a noncommittal manner.

"Molly!" Mary chastises, glowering at Molly.

Molly holds up her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry! But really, Mary, I'm happy for you and John. I can only imagine how good of a father he's going to be."

Mary positively glows with delight. "Isn't he going to be such a good father? I've already picked out some names, but none as bad as Irelynd."

"Irelynd?" Molly asks, bursting into laughter.

Mary joins in and the both of them are laughing so hard, they nearly explode. Once they've calmed down, Mary tries for an explanation.

"This daft woman at the baby shop was telling everyone what she was going to name her son. Christ, I already feel sorry for the baby."

Molly grins at that and pats Mary on the shoulder. "It's a good thing you're not naming your child that."

Mary nods playfully and then something clicks in her brain. "That's actually not the reason why I came here, Molly."

Molly looks up from pouring the tea. "Oh?"

"Sherlock was at the flat today and he was asking John about advice."

"I fail to see the connection, Mary."

"He was asking about you. And how to tell someone you loved them."

Molly is stunned into silence. _What even? _ That didn't sound like Sherlock. She could deal with her inner turmoil later. She had to act like she didn't care.

"Interesting," she replies in a deadpan voice.

And that's the end of their Sherlock conversation.

* * *

"So, do you just say it?" Sherlock asks, confusion written all over his face.

If he didn't look so desperate, John would have laughed.

Oh, wait—Sherlock looks desperate and John is amused. So he laughs and Sherlock glares. John brushes this off and starts to rifle through DVD cases.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks, horrified as he sees the titles of the DVDs.

"Research," John replies simply, handing Sherlock a stack of DVDs. "Watch them and if you're still confused, come back."

Sherlock, his mind in a fit of haze, thanks John profusely, failing to notice the stifling of laughter from John.

* * *

"You talked to Molly?" John asks, sliding into the bed with ease.

Mary runs a brush through her silky tresses. "Yes. She knows about the pregnancy, but she acted like she didn't care about Sherlock."

"Acted being the keyword, yeah?"

"Very convincingly acted."

"I lent Sherlock some of your chick-flicks."

Mary looks at John. "To punish him or to help him?"

"Both?" John replies innocently, giving Mary a wink.

"John Watson, you are impossible."

* * *

Sherlock has a hard time comprehending what these people mean. Everything is so confusing, and Sherlock is not easily confused.

He stares blankly at his laptop screen and gets a clever idea. He grabs his phone and starts typing up a text.

_John lent me some movies for research, but I'm a bit… confused with societal norms. Help? –SH_

He nods in approval before sending the message to one certain Molly Hooper.

* * *

Molly's phone _pings_ in the middle of a date and she looks at it, embarrassed.

"Sorry, do you mind if I look at my phone?" she asks, suddenly feeling shy.

"It's alright," her date replies politely, making her feel relieved.

She sees the message from Sherlock and quickly types a response back (_Busy _is all she says).

"So where were we?" Molly inquires, getting the conversation starting again.

* * *

Joshua is a perfectly nice guy who is witty and has a great smile.

(Molly finds herself thinking about how his eyes are brown and not crystallised blue, but she pushes that thought away.)

When he kisses her outside her flat, she feels this compulsive need to be closer to him, and have real contact with the opposite sex. She deepens the kiss and opens the door for them as his lips leave hers and attack her exposed collarbone.

They step inside and Joshua shuts the door behind them, leaning against it as Molly tangles her tongue with his. They both moan and are in the process of going for something more when they hear a resounding cough.

"You are a naughty girl, Molly Hooper," says the low and angry tone of the just about the last person Molly wanted to see.


End file.
